


take it all back

by lady_mab



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Conversations that need to happen, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 14:32:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18967162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_mab/pseuds/lady_mab
Summary: (sih30 spoilers)The letter ends there, unfinished, in a blotch of ink that matches the stain on Throndir’s elbow.Ephrim closes his eyes and breathes in. Fights down the flames and the panic and the fear. “You didn’t leave,” he says.There’s a pause before Throndir, timid, defeated, says, “I didn’t finish the letter.”Ephrim almost laughs, the breath wheezing in his lungs. “Stay.”





	take it all back

**Author's Note:**

> I woke away from home,  
> Two resigning words  
> Reach across my husk.  
> Go long and face it all,  
> We speak with iron tongues  
> And temper the heart for me.  
> \- talos _[this is us colliding](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5emojKdW1Hk)_

Ephrim realises his mistake too late.

He’s in too close, and Arrell pushes the advantage.

His hand lands on Ephrim’s cheek, cool and soft—and for one horrifying, dizzying second, all Ephrim can think about is earlier that day, in the study, Throndir’s hand on his cheek, fingers carding back through his hair.

And then the touch turns to ice. The tips of Arrell’s fingers are not soft as they dig into Ephrim’s hair. They push, nails piercing skin, raking against his brain, digging in and forcing a cry from Ephrim’s throat.

“My staff,” he pants, flesh burnt and curling away from a grimacing form.

Ephrim’s hand lifts, the wood vibrating in anticipation. In glee.

Arrell shoves him away as he takes it back with his remaining hand. “Where did you hide the plates?”

Someone else shouts something, but it’s a dull sound against the roaring force of Arrell’s voice in Ephrim’s head. “In the ocean,” Ephrim says through gritted teeth. The betrayal burns in his throat, and he wishes that it is enough to summon fire. “A mile or so off shore.”

“Good. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Arrell might smile, but it’s hard to tell. He lifts his staff, and Ephrim’s hand, pulled by a marionette’s string, lifts as well. “Now.” He makes a gesture, a flick of his wrist, and with a lurch in his stomach, Ephrim feels a piece of his soul uproot into a burning kernel in his palm. “Get out of my way.”

“Ephrim, no!” Benjamin’s voice. Or is that Fero? Fero moves, Benjamin cries out.

Too much is happening.

He doesn’t understand. It’s fine. They still have the time. They can still—

The world lists dangerously to one side, and Ephrim tilts with it. He reaches for something to steady himself, and his hand comes away dark with blood and alight with flame.

“Oh,” he says, or he thinks he does, because the window shatters and his voice is lost in the chaos.

Rosana screams, her son’s name. Her husband’s. They’re both—?

Ephrim can’t breathe.

There’s a hand on his shoulder (maybe?) his knees hit the ground (he was standing?) his hand is covered in blood (his) and fire (his) and Rosana is still screaming ( _Benjamin! Hadrian! Open your eyes, please—please—please_ ) begging, struggling—

He blinks, and suddenly he’s on the floor.

He blinks, slower this time, and Throndir has his foot on Arrell’s throat.

He blinks, trying to keep his eyes open. Throndir’s lips are pulled back in a grimace, his fangs vicious and visible. Arrell struggles beneath him, some silent war happening between the two of them.

And, slowly, bit by bit, Arrell’s movements weaken. His hand goes slack against Throndir’s calf.

And, slowly, painfully, Ephrim realises what happened the night before.

At that moment, Throndir looks up, and their eyes meet. The only thing Ephrim can focus on is the tear-stains on Throndir’s cheeks, glinting in the light.

Ephrim wants to reach for him. To pull him in close, and tell him _it will be fine we did what we could_.

His hand starts to lift, a thousand pounds rising slowly through sheer force of will.

He registers the shock and bone-deep pain etched into Throndir’s face before he blinks—

And his eyes don’t open back up for a very long time.

* * *

Ephrim’s senses are hazy with pain and fuzzy for want of true sleep. He feels hollowed out, smaller, the purple and black flames carving out more space inside his chest than he has left to give.

He inhales, and they claw their way up his throat, greedy and hungry.

His right arm _aches_ and for a second, he thinks that he might pass out again.

But a gentle scratching, quill on parchment, keep him grounded.

He forces his eyes open, and notices the sea of paper and ink spread across his bed. His eyes scan the pages in a slow study, and they pick out only one phrase, repeated over and over amid a storm of scribbles and blotches. _I’m sorry._

_███ ██ I’m sorry ████████ I’m sorry I’m sorry ████ ████ █████ ██ I’m sorry █████_

Page after page, the parchment crinkling beneath his hand as he reaches for one.

He hears a sharp intake of breath, and when he looks, Throndir has both hands over his face, doubled over. Ink spreads a slow dark bruise at his elbow.

“Throndir?” Ephrim’s voice cracks, breaks, his heart yearns. “What’s wrong.”

“I can’t—”

“Please tell me—”

“I can’t, Ephrim, I can’t.” _I’m sorry_ , the space between his words says. _Forgive me_ , the echoing rasp of his heaving breaths begs.

The hollowness in Ephrim’s chest yells to be noticed, clamors louder in the face of the cause.

He steadies himself, then holds out a hand. “Tell me.”

Throndir’s hesitation is palpable, but then he takes the parchment in his lap and places it in Ephrim’s grip. “I’ll go get your retainers. They’re worried sick.”

“No. Stay.” The words hurt in a way that Ephrim isn’t familiar with and isn’t keen on studying. “Please.”

Throndir looks like he wants to argue. He looks like he’s been crying—and with a jolt, Ephrim remembers his face in the study, when their eyes met. In the half-formed memories of barely hanging onto consciousness, he picks out the sound of Throndir’s sobs and the sensation of a hand on his face, gentle and terrified.

But Throndir stays, rooted in place. Unable to take a seat, unable to turn away. All he can do is wait and watch as Ephrim takes the letter and reads it.

_I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how. Didn’t want to add to your burdens with mine. Perhaps, even, didn’t want you to know. Couldn’t tell you._

_That we kept these secrets between us, I didn’t want you to know this weakness. That I could be a danger to you. That I was. The worries whispered, realized._

_I should have told you. I’m sorry._

_I didn’t want for you to find out like this._

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry._

_I’m terrified._

_That you’ll heed the words of your retainers and push me away. You should. You should, and I worry because I’m being selfish._

_I’m terrified of that moment in the study. When I didn’t know if I had done the right thing—with Benjamin (that there was a better solution), with you (that I shouldn’t have left your side), with Arrell (that I’m like him)._

_If I turn coward, I hope you’ll forgive me,_

The letter ends there, unfinished, in a blotch of ink that matches the stain on Throndir’s elbow.

Ephrim closes his eyes and breathes in. Fights down the flames and the panic and the fear. “You didn’t leave,” he says.

There’s a pause before Throndir, timid, defeated, says, “I didn’t finish the letter.”

Ephrim almost laughs, the breath wheezing in his lungs. “Stay.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Don’t leave.”

“Ephrim—what I did—”  

“It’s no more than I’ve willingly done to myself. You’ve apologized.” He wants to say _it won’t happen again_ , and make that statement true by speaking it, but they both know that isn’t how it works. “And you’ll apologize again, if it happens again.”

“It can’t—”

“You said it yourself, you don’t know how it works.”

“What I did to Arrell,” Throndir starts, and Ephrim clenches his jaw against the memory. “What I did to you was… What if I did that to you? What if I—you—” He reaches for Ephrim.

Ephrim sees Arrell reaching for him, feels the sickening invasion burning bile at the back of his throat, and he flinches back.

Throndir’s hand hovers in the space between them, and the shock of his own actions melts into a distressed realization. Throndir’s ears droop, his shoulders slump, defeated, and Ephrim launches himself across the chasm that they’ve created between them.

His hand finds Throndir’s, reassuringly warm, comfortable and familiar, and he lifts it to his cheek. He reels Throndir in until his lips find purchase. Desperate, needy, hungry, he pulls Throndir down.

The hesitation is still there, but Ephrim can feel it chip away piece by piece.

Throndir allows himself to be guided in, trembling beneath Ephrim’s hand, breath catching between kisses, tears hot where they tumble to Ephrim’s cheek.

They settle onto the mattress, clinging fiercely to one another. Throndir breathes apologies into the silence, and Ephrim kisses reassurances against his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> no, the blotched out boxes don't say anything, but you can bet your butt I spent way too long thinking if I SHOULD make them say something. 
> 
> Also like, prayer circle for next episode that they TALK ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED.


End file.
